


this woman is my destiny

by epetition



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:39:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epetition/pseuds/epetition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons had an exam in t-minus three hours. This alone was stressful enough. Unfortunately, someone thought it was a good idea to start baking at three in the morning. Jemma Simmons was not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this woman is my destiny

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "You’re baking cookies in the communal kitchen at 3am and I’m angry but also really hungry," but with less anger and more awkwardness.

Jemma Simmons had precisely three hours and twenty-three minutes until her first final exam.

She had three hours and twenty-three minutes to review the last few chapters of the current unit before she had to trek across campus at seven in the morning.

Now, pulling an all-nighter the day before an exam was not something Jemma would advocate, much less do, but her schedule had been so  _hectic_ —a different essay every week, group projects where she simply couldn’t trust her groupmates to do their parts because  _really_ , computational genomics was something she knew like Professor Banner knew gamma radiation, so no one should blame her for doing everything when the others were obviously not fit to—

Anyway.

It was three thirty-seven a.m, and Jemma Simmons was determined to memorize the current chapter’s main topics before the clock struck four.

And she was confident this would happen, even if her stomach had been rumbling every few minutes for the past half hour.

Even if there was an incessant cacophony of clattering and clamoring from the kitchen downstairs.

Jemma Simmons was going to finish her work.

_Clang!_  A muffled “oh, shit!”

She was going to finish her work.

_Thump!_  A louder “are you fucking serious—“

She was going to—

_Thud!_  “Ow!”

No.

Jemma Simmons was not going to accomplish anything if her concentration was constantly interrupted by some heathen doing who-knows-what at three in the morning.

Jaw set and (impeccable) eyebrows knitted, Jemma slowly let out a breath as she left her dorm and headed downstairs to the communal kitchen. She paused before the closed door, hoping that whoever was behind it was, at the very least, friendly. Definitely inconsiderate, but hopefully, friendly.

-

The counter was littered with chocolate chips, measuring cups, and eggshells. There was some sort of brown... paste? (cookie dough, Jemma hypothesized, but no assumptions were to be made before thorough analysis) on the ceiling, and it was slowly dripping onto the floor.

There was a woman covered in flour, crouched over the ground as her hands held a baking sheet. She fumbled with the tray when Jemma opened the door and loudly sighed with relief when she caught it before it could clatter to the ground (a second time, Jemma guessed, if her body language was an indication).

And now the stranger was standing with her elbow resting on the counter, head cradled in her hand.

"Heeeey. What up?" She gave Jemma a guilty smile.

There were several ways Jemma could approach this.

One: a literal answer. What was "up" was mysterious brown goop. The stranger would then identify it, assuaging Jemma's curiosity. What happened after would depend on what the substance was. (If it was food, Jemma would move on. If it  _wasn't_  food, she'd have to continue a line of questioning.)

Two: be straightforward. She would forego small talk and firmly state the girl was being a nuisance. In kinder words, of course.

Three: do not respond at all. This, however, was not an acceptable option.

The girl looked Jemma up and down. A slight head tilt and a bigger, less-guilty smile from her made Jemma stand just a bit straighter.

Choice number two it was, then.

“Ahem. Good...” Jemma glanced at the ticking clock on the wall (was that… egg yolk on it?). Three forty-two.  _Ante meridiem_. “...early morning. I see you’re in the process of making- erm, something.”

“Oh, yeah!” The stranger beamed. Had it not been fifteen to four, Jemma would have appreciated this woman’s beauty. “I’m baking cookies. Trying to, at least. Do you want one when I’m done?”

It appeared she was friendly, after all. And, upon closer examination, was someone whose facial ratios greatly appealed to Jemma.

But that was beside the point, because it was nearing four a.m. and Jemma had no time to waste.

“No, thank you, though that’s kind of you to offer. I actually came down to say you’re, um—you see, I have an early exam tomo- today, and it’s a tad bit difficult for me to focus, since you’re...” She trailed off, vaguely gesturing at the mess around her.

The smile slipped off the girl’s face as she lifted her head off her hand and leaned both her elbows on the counter.

“Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize I was being so loud. I’ll be more quiet, promise.”

And oh, dear, she had such a determined expression on her face and it was so  _endearing_ , and in Jemma’s four a.m. state of mind she very nearly decided to take back her words and just stay with this strange girl and her questionable decisions to bake at half-past three in the morning, but—

Enzyme kinetics. The structural determination of macromolecules via x-ray crystallogy. Priorities, Jemma. Priorities.

“Thank you, I’ll be on my way now. I hope you... succeed in your baking?”

Then Jemma’s insides churned because there it was, another stunning smile on this stranger’s perfectly proportioned face and all she could do was smile back and desperately hope that her legs would start moving soon.

Fortunately?—her hopes and dreams were crushed, because her stomach groaned.

And now Jemma was staring resolutely at the now-identified cookie dough on the ceiling, avoiding the amusement in her—companion’s? acquaintance’s? oh, goodness, her sleep deprivation was showing—in the stranger’s (yes, ‘ _stranger_ ,’ Jemma, because you were irritated with her only so many minutes ago, don’t be so easily swayed by a charming smile and, oh, breasts—) eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want a cookie or two? There’s a batch in the oven right now, should be done in a couple minutes.”

“Ah, well, erm- I really do have to be studying, so—” and then Jemma’s stomach finished the rest of her sentence for her.

(Once again, Jemma ignored aesthetically-pleasing girl’s smile and looked elsewhere.)

“Look, I don’t know a whole lot about studying, but you can’t really focus if you’re hungry, right?”

Ah. Yes. Hunger. Her priorities should include taking care of her physical well-being. This was sound logic. But then Jemma blinked and the image of a big, red F stamped on her exam paper appeared in her mind, and she had to stop herself from making impulsive decisions at four a.m. based on her attraction to this  _stranger_.

“I- I apologize, but I really have to get going. Thank you, though, for being so considerate, but hunger or not, I don’t think I’m able to focus anyway because the neckline of your shirt is really quite low, and I—oh, I, good- good-bye, thank you, sorry—”

Jemma shut her mouth before she could further spout anything else that would later contribute to her existential dread. The door clicked shut behind her as she shuffled up the stairs, face red and ears burning.

-

It was six fifty-five a.m., and Jemma had memorized thirty-two terms, learned the characteristics of the Fischer and Haworth projections, and realized the importance of eight hours of sleep the night before exam day.

She felt like a personified version of death.

Never again will she be so reckless about her studies.

Her thought process was a blur of vocabulary and protein structures as she ambled down to the communal kitchen, a warm cup of tea her goal.

No one else was in there, and it was spotless. No cookie dough on the ceiling, no yolk on the clock, no flour covering the counters. Jemma blinked. Had she hallucinated last night?

She spotted a plate of cookies beside the oven. No hallucinations, after all.

There was a sticky note on the plastic wrap covering the cookies.

“for 4am girl ONLY (seriously if anyone else takes a cookie I WILL find you and you can say good-bye to your grade- comp sci major here, hacker extraordinaire)

hi! sorry again for last night. good luck on your final!

-Skye

ps your breasts are nice too”

Oh. Well then. Exam aside- maybe today wasn’t going to be so terrible.

 


End file.
